The guidance counselor’s office was located on the second floor of Ashworth Hall, tucked away in a corner that most students never visited unless they were in trouble or applying to college.
I was there for neither.
Dr. Patricia Reyes had been my assigned counselor since freshman year. She was somewhere in her late forties, with graying hair she didn’t bother to dye and reading glasses she was constantly losing. Her office was cluttered with college brochures, motivational posters, and a small army of succulents that she talked to when she thought no one was listening.
She was also one of the only adults at Hartwell who treated me like a person instead of a charity case.
I knocked on the door frame. "Dr. Reyes?"
"Isaiah! Come in, come in." She waved me toward the chair across from her desk. "I was just about to send for you. Perfect timing."
That’s ominous.
I sat down. The chair was one of those uncomfortable plastic ones designed to discourage long visits. It didn’t work on me. I could sleep anywhere at this point.
"You wanted to see me?"
"I wanted to follow up on a few things. Your work-study schedule, your commute situation, the usual beginning-of-year check-in." She shuffled through a stack of papers. "But first, how was your summer?"
"Productive."
"That’s not an answer, Isaiah."
"It’s the answer I have."
She gave me that look. The one that said she saw through my deflection but wasn’t going to push. Dr. Reyes was good at that look.
"Alright. Let’s talk business then." She pulled out a folder with my name on it. "I reviewed your request for the commuter pass subsidy."
I sat up slightly. This was the thing I’d been waiting on all summer. Hartwell had a fund for students who needed transportation assistance. I’d applied back in May, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, I could stop hemorrhaging money on train tickets.
"And?"
Dr. Reyes’s expression shifted. Apologetic. My stomach dropped before she even opened her mouth.
"The committee decided not to extend the program this year."
"Why?"
"Insufficient demand. You were the only applicant who would have qualified for the specific route subsidy. The fund is designed for situations where multiple students share similar commute challenges. Since no one else travels from the Philadelphia area..."
"There’s no ’demand.’"
"I’m sorry, Isaiah. I pushed for an exception, but the financial committee has strict guidelines."
Train tickets. Roughly fifty dollars round trip on a good day. Five days a week. Four weeks a month. That’s a thousand dollars monthly just on transportation. Not counting subway fare. Not counting the occasional emergency Uber when I miss a connection.
That’s money I could be saving. Money for Iris. Money for emergencies. Money that’s currently being fed into the Metropolitan Transit Authority like offerings to an indifferent god.
"That’s unfortunate," I said.
"I know this isn’t the answer you were hoping for."
"It’s fine."
"It’s clearly not fine."
"It’s not your fault. You tried." I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. "I’ll figure something out. I always do."
Silence hung between us for a moment. Dr. Reyes removed her glasses, cleaned them on her cardigan, and put them back on. Her tell for when she was about to say something she’d been preparing.
"Isaiah, can we talk about something else?"
"Depends on what it is."
"Your future."
Ah. The dreaded F-word.
"What about it?"
"It’s your senior year. College applications are due in a few months. You’ve been here for three years, maintained excellent grades despite..." She gestured vaguely at the air between us. "Everything. And yet I have no idea what you actually want."
"I want to graduate."
"That’s a given. What comes after?"
I considered the question. It wasn’t one I let myself think about often. The future was a luxury. Something you planned for when the present wasn’t actively trying to drown you.
"College, I guess."
"You ’guess’?"
"UPenn, probably. It’s close to home."
Dr. Reyes’s eyebrows rose. "UPenn is an excellent school. Very competitive. You’d have a strong application with your grades and extracurriculars."
"I don’t have extracurriculars."
"Your work experience counts. Two jobs while maintaining a 3.94 GPA? That’s more impressive to admissions than being president of the debate club."
Two jobs. The Velvet Room and whatever shifts I can pick up. Plus the commute. Plus taking care of Iris. Plus trying to have approximately two hours of consciousness per day that aren’t dedicated to survival.
Yeah. Real impressive.
"Why UPenn specifically?" Dr. Reyes asked. "Is it the program? The campus? Family connections?"
"It’s in Philadelphia."
"So proximity to home."
"Proximity to my sister."
Her expression softened. "How is Iris?"
"Fine. Starting eighth grade. She’s doing well."
"And she’s still at Kensington Middle?"
"Yeah."
"Have you thought about... other options for her?"
I met Dr. Reyes’s eyes. She knew. Of course she knew. She’d been my counselor for three years. She’d seen my financial aid applications, my emergency fund requests, my carefully worded explanations for why I sometimes fell asleep in class.
She knew why I was really here.
"I’ve thought about it."
"Hartwell has a scholarship program for siblings of current students. If Iris applies next year for ninth grade, your status as an alumni-in-progress would give her application additional weight."
"I know."
"The application deadline is February."
"I know."
"Isaiah."
"I know, Dr. Reyes."
She leaned forward. Her desk was cluttered with family photos, I noticed. A brother in some kind of business suit. Nieces and nephews at various ages. A normal family doing normal things.
Must be nice.
"You’re working yourself into the ground for her," Dr. Reyes said quietly. "I’ve watched you do it for three years. And I understand why. But you need to think about yourself too. You can’t pour from an empty cup."
"Motivational posters are supposed to stay on the wall."
"I’m serious."
"So am I." I sighed. "Look, I appreciate the concern. But Iris is my priority. She’s smart. Smarter than me, probably. If she can get into Hartwell, if she can get the same opportunity I got, then everything I’m doing is worth it."
"And what about what you want?"
"What I want is irrelevant."
"That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me."
"It’s realistic."